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My Education

Poster: withnursedwound @ Mon Dec 15, 2008 5:03 am

Having just wrapped up one of the most stressful semesters of my life, and my first semester abroad at that, I can honestly say that it is a treat to be able to write and not worry about what some asshole with a PhD thinks of my illegible scribbles. This of course does not excuse my lack of latewire vernacular or my skid-row grasp of grammar, but cut a guy some slack, eh?
When first applying for the Malaysian University of Speculative-Fiction & Applied Nanotechnology study abroad program, I can honestly say I had no great conflict of conscience. It was high time to get away from the frigid witch-twat void that is the American northwest. This exchange of temperatures was entirely worth the trade-off of not being able to blast my Melvins records at 120+ decibels at all hours of the day, which is really saying something. Once you live in a cold environment for long enough the only thing which possibly can convey any true feeling of warmth is usually derived from that most blessed of the poppies, Papaver somniferum. Of course anything capable of making a human being feel halfway alive is really not possible to keep fucking around with for any length of time. And so I traded Rock & Roll for some warmth of the soul, little did I know was that I was dancing the razors edge of yet another black fucking hole.
You see the problem lies not in the faculty or curriculum, not in the construction or architecture of the campus which are both quite breathtaking, the problem lies in the misconception that modern Universities must be the litmus test for every utopian pipedream to be shat forth from the illimitable imaginations of eccentric and post-qualified eggheads worldwide. You see, it is not enough for some bespectacled shits to have a horticulture unit which grows a completely pesticide and herbicide free menu for the students. You’d think the reincarnated soul of Albert fucking Einstein himself would be pleased with an entirely self-sufficient solar/wind/tidal powered campus and that further improvements would be entirely superfluous and unwarranted. Well, you would be dead fucking wrong, just as I was.
You see it is the unneeded further improvements which simultaneously sapped my sanity and also spiced up the education process to a point where my elaborate and scathingly humorous murder-suicide plots were kept in a the single digit territories for perhaps the first time in my life since my testacles descended back in the good old summer of El Niño circa 1994. Now, perhaps this is all hyperbole, and it most likely is, but hear me out on this and you may find your credulity rewarded.
I first started to notice that things were not quite as they seemed in the brochures and telephone interviews when I noticed a cacophonous wailing upon reaching the vestibule to my living quarters. It was as if some sonic portcullis had been concocted for no other fact than the sheer mutilation of my eardrums. Nothing could have prepared me for what I was about to witness, in fact the plane ride over had been sheer fucking bliss with not a single unexpected sound whatsoever, which is rare considering how many overfucked and inbred cunts think taking small children on public airplanes is what constitutes a good idea. The stewardess was one of those most rarest and appreciated of females who understand that nothing quite takes the edge off of travelling at supersonic velocities in an oversized aerodynamic soda can like an expertly crafted vodka martini replete with mini-onion which those in the know refer to as The Gibson. To sweeten an already stevia'd deal this particularly lovely lass also was aware of the fact that flirting for flirting's sake is perhaps the best known way to ease tension which is neither illegal nor involves getting uncomfortably sticky, uncomfortable cleaning up something sticky, or avoiding being made sticky by substances which shall remain nameless. Anyways, back to the mewling of the damned, for as it happened, there was a small family of what appeared to be real-life Pokemon all sitting on a windowsill and rising one hell of a ruckus at my approach. You see some local intellectual authority, probably during a moment of narcotic induced epiphany, had concocted the scheme to slightly modify the biological structure of the imported Asian Palm Civet. A Civet is something of a cross between a raccoon, a cat, and that face your little sister used to make when she shit her diaper as a baby. The thing to note about the Asian Palm Civet in particular is its fondness for that most aromatic of beans (no, not human beans) the coffee bean. What comes as second nature to a Civet is to ingest the coffee fruit whole and later shit out an undigested yet perfectly fermented coffee bean which is ready for to be made into that modern day elixir of life, the café espresso. I think the original goal of the project was to fund the campus's energy expenditures with some kind of home grown cat-shit coffee, for you see the Civet-shat coffee bean is worth more than its weight in gold due to the extreme snobbery of coffee drinking assholes worldwide for reasons only known to caffeine tweaking spastics. This plan must have been implemented before the massive solar and wind farms on the roofs of each lecture hall were installed because as far as I understood it, the University generated so much electricity that it was actually making a profit by selling excess Megawatts back to the local energy companies. Nevertheless, RFID implanted Civet's were a staple of the MUSFAN experience and also the impetus for my abstinence from all forms of coffee, be it shat made or organically grown in the shade. As I later learned, these animals were not quite what one would consider ‘organic’ in regards to mitosis/meiosis and other matters, but that is perhaps for another story.
As awkward and ghoulish as the welcoming committee appeared on first visit it wasn’t long before I had befriended the cute little kits. Though I was never hard up for cash enough to harvest their buttbeans, I did develop something of a love/hate relationship with a few of the more personable buggers (emphasis here being on the love, mind you.) They helped me get through some of the more insane study sessions, including the time I completely forgot the Quadratic formula and had to factor my polynomials the good old fashioned long-ways. Civet fur is remarkably soft and comforting, and even absorbs those most pernicious of tears, the tears of blind rage and sheer frustration. So to say the little bastard Civet’s grew on me would be quite accurate. This relationship with manufactured nature was maintained all the way up until Finals Week rolled around…
Now, every individual who has attended an institution of ‘higher-learning’ is familiar with the manmade Hell that is colloquially referred to as Finals Wee. Most likely this phrase conjures fond memories of holes in walls and significant others with blackened and swollen features along with heavy doses of amphetamines and prescription Adderall abuse. Well just let me add one more image to your stygian rolodex if I may, one which you may or may not soon forget. As familiar as Finals are, the frat-boy is just as recognizable. No matter what class of institution you attend, there will always and forever be those privileged weasels who can afford to leach off their lamprey resembling parents (who in turn leach off the labor of other less lazy individuals.) You will find the vultures everywhere you go in life, it is an unavoidable fact. Now I know the lifestyle of the seven A.M. booze run, so it did not in the slightest phase me to see all manner of lay about sprawled across the sub-tropical campus during finals week, but what really surprised me is the lengths through which caffeine saturated individuals will go to get another fix. Nothing and I mean nothing will scrub from your mind the image of an immaculately groomed and gadget toting societal lamprey suckling the rumpled anus folds of a bewildered and frightened Asian Palm Civet. I have seen the horror, and with mine own two eyes have I become the Evil One Which Sobs. The crunching of beans wailed like the grating of bottle glass scraping across the pavement of a late night murder scene. I covered my face in shame and gnawed upon my lips hoping for some kind of chasm to open beneath my feet and end this dire spectacle. It is after many weeks of deliberation that I have come once again to a genial if not saturnine state of being reminiscent of my former modus operandi and in doing so I have come to discover a noble truth: that all our efforts at the University can hope to eventually equip us with is a generation of children equally as worthless and loathsome as the shitsucking sodomites at MUSFAN. The only viable way around this is to spoil the ragamuffin bastards until the age of 13 and then force them to burn their childhood memories one by one before being shipped off to the salt mines for at least a 7 year stint. Of course a wholly viable alternative is to simply build an inorganic shell with which to infuse your nervous system, soul, and memories. Because honestly folks, at the end of the day ain’t it better to keep your experiences to yourself? Spare the world the creation of another special little someone who wouldn’t hesitate to put lips to shitter and suck like J. Edgar Hoover at a mescaline party.

Keywords: Education  Short Story 
Comments: 2  •  Post Comment  •  Share Share Top
Hank Tue Dec 16, 2008 9:56 pm
This piece is so real that, upon its publication, each flaky particle that once was a part of Raoul Duke floating through the ionosphere was turned into a minuscule diamond of bitterness which then plummeted to Earth, getting into the eye of an associate professor and causing major irritation of the conjunctivia.

This post does for study-abroad programs what "Campaign Trail '72" did for electoral politics.

1m1w Wed Dec 17, 2008 1:39 am
It's quite hard to beleive they actually went through with that whole ghoulish funeral business, more phantasmagoria than eulogy if you ask me.
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